


Haunted

by BethXP



Series: Old Sherlock Fics [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 07:27:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1501853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BethXP/pseuds/BethXP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock starts having nightmares after refusing a case.</p><p>
  <em>Please be aware this fic is here for cataloguing and storing purposes only. It was written by a young teenager who was new to fanfiction and I hope to god has improved over the past few years. I'd rather not be told how poorly written/badly spelt/nonsense story this fic is because believe me I know, so if you read it it is at your own risk. This has been a warning by the writer of this fic.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"How long has he been dead?" Sherlock stooped over the body and gave the blue lips a sniff.

"Not long, about an hour and a half. The neighbour heard screaming about six o'clock and called the police. They broke in and found him like this." Lestrade flipped open his notebook and read out all the important information he had gathered so far. "The victim's name is Phillip Dalton, a music agent from Surrey. He lives here with his son Joseph after his wife committed suicide last year. According to the medical examiner, the time of death corresponds with the time the scream was heard and the call to police, but the neighbour did not see anyone fleeing the scene from the front, and there are no signs of forced entry at any of the doors or windows on the premises."

"You notice the angle at which the knife was inserted?" Sherlock interrupted, and then he explained before either John or Lestrade could reply. "Upward force from low down." He then mimicked the action, practically having to get down on his knees, and John agreed it did look odd. Sherlock then flicked his fingers, instructing Lestrade to continue.

"No useful prints have been found so far but the boys are still looking." Sherlock's lip curled ever so slightly at the mention of the forensics crew. 

"Is that it?"

"We have a witness." Sherlock straightened up. "Well, we think we do."

"How can you _think_ you have a witness?" asked John, who had been standing silently as Sherlock went about his magic.

"During the search of the house we found Joseph, the son, hiding in his wardrobe upstairs. He must have seen or heard something or else why would he be hiding in the cupboard?" Sherlock appeared to have spaced out, his eyes darting left and right as his brows furrowed. "He was shaking when we found him," Lestrade whispered to John, not wanting to interrupt Sherlock's train of thought, "he hasn't spoken a word since we found him."

"Where is he?"

"The neighbour has him playing with her children, which he does often, but not even she can get him to talk. We can organise counselling but…" Lestrade shrugged.

 

"I am done I think," announced Sherlock as he spun round, making his coat flare elegantly. 

"And?" Lestrade encouraged, knowing it would be Sherlock's lead that would solve this case.

"I wish to speak to the boy."

"He will not talk to you," replied Lestrade sounding slightly surprised.

"We'll see."

Again Lestrade shrugged and led Sherlock and John next door. At first the neighbour, Jen, thought they had come to talk to her, so she had begun to repeat her witness statement to Sherlock. But Sherlock had little patience for her and demanded a bit too strongly to talk to the boy she was temporarily caring for.

"He is in the kitchen baking cakes with my two children," she answered, an edge in her tone that no doubt was there because of Sherlock's rudeness.

 

They found him just as they had been told, quietly stirring a bowl of cake mix whilst the other two children chatted away and greased some cake tins.

As the three men entered, the children turned to them and stopped talking immediately.

"Your mother is looking for you," said Sherlock coldly. The children looked at each other and then slowly walked out of the room, their backs against the wall in fear so that they were as far away as possible from the big scary pale man in the dark coat and messy hair. 

Joseph was left twiddling his thumbs and avoiding Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock studied him for a moment and then shooed Lestrade and John out into the corridor. They thought he was going to tell them something he didn't want the boy to hear, but when he began to shut the door with them on the other side they realised he was cutting them out. Lestrade slammed his foot in the door so it could not close.

"You and a disturbed child on your own?" Lestrade frowned. "I'm not sure if that is a good idea Sherlock."

"Believe it or not Lestrade, I am capable of subtlety and tact occasionally." Sherlock looked at John. Some kind of silent conversation passed between them as John gently placed his hand on Lestrade's arm.

"Just let him try, if we here screaming or crying we can always break the door down." Lestrade didn't look overly pleased but he stepped back and allowed Sherlock's private consultation with the child.

 

One minute.

 

Two minutes.

 

Five minutes.

 

John began to twitch after ten minutes had passed.

"Maybe we should-"

The door opened and the young boy peered at them, his eyes red raw and the colour of his skin a deathly grey. John was about to demand what Sherlock had done to him, but the words got stuck in his throat when he noticed how Sherlock had his hand on the boy's back as if he was comforting him, and the boy was clinging onto his coat like you would a parent when you were around strangers.

"Joseph is ready to make a statement," Sherlock said calmly, although there was something off with his manner that John could not figure out. _Please god, don't tell me he tortured the boy_.

 

Lestrade called an officer over who specialised in child victims to get the statement and went to sit down in the corner so he could listen, but as Sherlock disappeared out the door he made the snap decision to follow him, he could always read the statement later. He found Sherlock talking once again with the neighbour, but to his surprise it was not about the case.

"Does the boy have anyone to stay with whilst everything is sorted out? Family? The last thing he needs right now is to be put in a care home."

"He is welcome to stay with me as long as he needs; he has been practically family since they moved in next door." Sherlock's agitation seemed to calm after that and he nodded approvingly at the woman before walking out of the house without saying goodbye, John and Lestrade hot on his heels.

 

"So?"

"So what?" Lestrade sighed at Sherlock's difficultness.

"So, any leads?"

"I'm afraid this case does not interest me Lestrade, therefore I shall not waste any brain power trying to solve it."

"Sherlock!" John protested, but Sherlock was defiant.

"What about the boy?" 

Sherlock shifted on the spot.

"He'll be fine." Sherlock didn't allow Lestrade to reply, he was already half way down the street before he had finished speaking. 

 

John was cross with Sherlock. He had seen him turn down cases before, but never involving a child that had been orphaned by the murder. To avoid having to talk to him, John went to bed early, reading for a while before feeling his eyes droop and going to sleep.

 

A loud thump woke John from his dreamless sleep. At first he thought he was hearing things but when a second thud was heard, along with a muffled moan, John shot up on red alert. He took the gun from his bed side drawer and tiptoed out of his room in search for the origin of the noises. There was a yelp. _Sherlock!_ John raced to Sherlock's room, cocking the gun before charging into the bedroom and aiming it at the bed.

He lowered the gun immediately when he saw that Sherlock was the only one in the room. He was wrestling his duvet and crying out in his sleep. _Nightmare_ , John thought sympathetically, knowing what those could be like.

As John stood there contemplating what to do, Sherlock gave one large jerk and fell off the bed. The impact was not quite enough to wake him, however, as he had managed to tangle himself up in his duvet and so it cushioned his fall. John sighed and quietly picked Sherlock up and helped him back into bed. Sherlock was still whimpering so he did what he mother would do to him when he had nightmares when he was young. He hushed a few times and stroked Sherlock's forehead.

"Shh Sherlock, it was just a dream, shh."

It did the trick. The wriggling stopped and Sherlock's breath slowed. John debated staying with Sherlock just in case the dreams came back, but he decided against it. So he gave Sherlock a final tuck in and went back to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

John assumed Sherlock did not remember the events of the night before the next morning, as he said nothing about the nightmare or the unexpected visit from John in the night. John did not want to push it; sometimes nightmares were just nightmares, so they ate breakfast in silence. Well, John ate breakfast in silence. Sherlock fidgeted and wandered throughout the flat in silence looking for things to do.

 

"Don't you have an experiment you could be getting on with?" John asked finally when he could not take Sherlock's agitation any longer.

"My current investigation needs three days to ferment, and I cannot start the next experiment on my list until I know the outcome of this one."

John was going to ask what this 'current investigation' was, but then he decided he probably didn't want to know. He was going to suggest shopping when Sherlock's mobile rang, and seeing Sherlock had no intention to pick it up, no doubt it was too far away and he couldn't be bothered to walk the two metres to the table to get it, John answered it himself.

"Hello, Sherlock Holmes' phone."

"Hi John, it's Lestrade. Look I know Sherlock said this case didn't interest him, but we have had some developments and we could really do with his insight."

"You are welcome to come over, in fact I beg you to come over. I have this horrible feeling Sherlock is about to set fire to a cushion."

"Ah, he's in one of _those_ moods, is he?"

"I think he'd take anything to kill the boredom right now."

"Alright, I will be right over."

John hung up and turned to see Sherlock frowning crossly at him.

"Set fire to a cushion?"

"I saw the way you were eyeing up that sofa! I certainly wouldn't put it past you!"

 

John was relieved when Lestrade arrived. The argument over the cushion had gotten physical in a Chuckle Brothers style 'to me, to you' fight over the fabric.

"I told you I was not interested in the case," Sherlock said once they had sat and calmed down.

"Well John invited me here so it doesn't matter what you think, does it?"

 

After six years of knowing and working with Sherlock, Lestrade knew the best way to get him to listen and help was to act like you didn't need it. Sherlock has a ridiculous amount of pride, and the moment you shoo him away from a case, he saw it as a challenge and he would jump at the chance to prove you wrong.

 

"So these are the facts as we know them," Lestrade began, deliberately looking at John to cut Sherlock out. "The boy, Joseph, claimed he was upstairs in his room when he heard a scream, no doubt the scream the neighbour heard. The scream frightened him and so he hid in his wardrobe. He did not see or hear anything else."

"Well that doesn't get us very far," sighed John, but Lestrade had not finished.

"Jen, the neighbour, called up Scotland Yard last night. She told us that as she was giving Joseph a bath, she found bruises and cuts all over his body and was worried the murderer had bullied him into silence." John noticed out of the corner of his eye that Sherlock, who had been sitting with his arms folded during this time, twitched. "We are going to go back and talk to him once more. I was wondering," Lestrade finally addressed Sherlock, who like a child folded his arms tighter and looked away, "if you would like to tag along."

"Nope, not interested. Like I said yesterday, this case is not worthy of my level of intellect. Come back when you have something more stimulating to pester me about."

Lestrade knew better than to stay any longer wasting his time. He got up and John showed him out, apologising for Sherlock's behaviour.

"I don't know what's got into him."

"It's just Sherlock though, isn't it?" Lestrade shrugged.

 _Is it though? I'm not so sure_ , John thought to himself.

 

The fact that Sherlock refused to help this poor boy still angered John. The idea that he could be so cold surprised him, and he wished that for once _he_ was the one with the massive intellect, as he wouldn't have thought twice about helping this boy.

"I was thinking," John started, putting down the newspaper he wasn't really reading.

"Always a dangerous thing to do," murmured Sherlock, who had put a wet flannel across his forehead like he was treating a migraine. John ignored him.

"I was thinking that maybe I should go with Lestrade and talk to the boy Joseph. I was a soldier; I know what it is like to be hurt and afraid. Maybe I could get something out of him that the Yarders couldn't."

"No," Sherlock replied flatly.

"No?"

"No."

"Is that a 'no, you would only make it worse' or a 'no, if I'm not working on this case then neither are you'?" Sherlock paused a little before answering.

"Bit of both."

 

For a second night in a row John heard shouting coming from Sherlock's room. Slipping on his dressing gown, he walked sleepily to the other bedroom and gently pushed the door open. Again Sherlock was wrestling with his duvet and whining in his sleep. As it worked last night, John went to stroke Sherlock's forehead and hush him, but as his fingertips brushed his brow, Sherlock wriggled and so John hit him with more force than he intended. Sherlock lurched forward.

"Father!"

"Hush, Sherlock, it's alright, it's just me." 

Sherlock's eyes were open wide with fear, his was sweaty and his breath rate three times as fast as it should have been. 

John cradled him and slowly the awareness and recognition returned to Sherlock. He looked at John like he was trying to deduce why he was in his room.

"Are you okay now? You were having a nightmare-"

"Don't be ridiculous! Only children have nightmares." Sherlock pushed John away.

"I saw you, and heard you. You know it's easier if you talk about it." John was trying to be tentative, but he was visibly wounded by the way Sherlock had rejected him.

"I don't know what you are talking about," he snapped, "now if you don't mind," he tried to usher John off his bed but John stayed put.

"Actually I do mind, that's two nights in a row you have woken me up!" He folded his arms like a parent.

"Fine, if you're so desperate to stay in my room, then stay! But I'm not staying in here with you." He promptly got up, put on his dressing gown and slippers that were scrunched up in a bundle on the floor, and stormed downstairs.

John followed with an exasperated; "Sherlock!" but the sound of the front door slamming told him it was too late.


	3. Chapter 3

The irritating ring of a mobile phone woke John from his slumber. He glanced around for it, momentarily puzzled as to why he was sleeping in his armchair in the living room, before remembering how Sherlock had walked out and John had intended to wait up for him but he fell asleep before he returned.

 

The phone continued to ring and, rubbing his eyes, John answered it.

"Hello?"

"John? Lestrade. I thought I would give you another update. Despite his denial, Sherlock _is_ interested in this case. I know him better than I think he appreciates."

"Well even if he isn't, _I'd_ still like to be kept in the loop." With this encouragement, Lestrade went into detective mode. John could almost hear the turning of the detective's notebook as he listed all the new information they had discovered. 

"We had a doctor look at Joseph. The bruising the neighbour discovered ranged from a few days to a few weeks old. We suspect the father was abusing the boy." John tightened his fingers into fists around the mobile, he did not understand how a man could mistreat his own son. "So we looked into the mother's suicide, and the officer on that case also suspected abuse."

"Good god," was all John could manage. Lestrade said nothing, for he had seen this type of thing so many times before, but the tone with which he spoke hinted at the disapproval and sadness of it all.

"Sherlock was right about the angle with which the weapon was struck. The pathologist said it was like the killer was kneeling at the time." John frowned, but could think of no explanation to this puzzle.

"It that all?"

"For now."

"Well, please, keep me informed."

"Of course." John heard Lestrade sigh. "Nobody deserves to be murdered, particularly like this, but I can't help but think that whoever did this probably did the world a favour, especially for Joseph. Anyway, I'd better get on with catching this killer. Bye John."

"Bye."

 

John was staring at his mobile phone when Sherlock emerged from the kitchen with a steaming cup of tea. John noted he hadn't made one for him.

"What did you get up to last night?" John asked, trying to sound like he didn't care, but the fact that Sherlock had no doubt returned to find him asleep in the living room waiting for him kind of ruined that for him.

"I went for a walk." 

John knew that tone, he didn't want to talk about it. Well John didn't care, he was worried sick.

"In your pyjamas?"

"Everyone on the streets at that time are either drunk or high, they wouldn't have noticed what I was wearing, even if I had a flashing sign hovering over my head."

"Do you feel like talking about those nightmares?"

"I don't have nightmares."

John sighed. He wasn't going to talk, no matter how much he pushed.

"That was Lestrade on the phone," he said at last, "giving an update on the case."

"Well?" 

John grinned inwardly. If that didn't prove he was interested in this case then nothing did.

 

John repeated everything Lestrade had told him over the phone. By the time he was finished, Sherlock was looking incredibly perplexed.

"I didn't expect him to get his far." John waggled his finger.

"You don't give him enough credit. He was a Scotland Yard detective _before_ you came along you know." But John could tell he wasn't listening. "Sherlock. Sherlock!" Sherlock snapped his head round, looking like a rabbit caught in the headlights. "If you know anything that could help the case then you need to swallow your pride and call Lestrade."

"It's not my pride, and anyway," he said angrily, "I don't know anything." With dramatic grace, Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa, shutting his eyes and placing his fingertips together and tucking them under his chin. Rolling his eyes, John picked up the newspaper and began to read of the latest gobbledygook Boris Johnson had come out with.

 

As John put down the paper, he was still annoyed that Sherlock had done nothing in the past hour. But as he focused on his flatmate, he heard the slow steady breathing and saw how the prayer pose had loosened to hands resting on his chest. John smiled, he relished these few moments where he could do what he liked without fear of being mocked.

 

He felt a grumble coming from his stomach. Food would not be a bad place to start. As quietly as possible, John toasted some bread and cooked some baked beans, eating them at the table contently enough.

 

"Father no!"

John frowned and looked round into the living room. 

"Please, it was an accident!"

Sympathy filled him when he recognised the way Sherlock twisted and turned in his sleep, groping the air and pushing at the cushions beside him.

"No father, please, no!"

John shot up, certain the dreams were getting worse. Sherlock sounded truly terrified. John shook him to try and wake him. Sherlock's eyes blinked open, but they were glazed over and panicky. He reached out behind him, grabbing a statuette on the side table, and swung it at John.

"No, you can't hurt me anymore, you're dead!" He sounded so childlike, so innocent, so full of fear.

"Shh, Sherlock, it's me." Sherlock took a second swing and John caught his wrists so that he could not do it again. "Sherlock!" he said much more firmly this time. It hurt a nerve and for the first time Sherlock looked at him with some recognition. 

"John…" he whispered, his arms going limp and relief flooding his expression. John released him from his hold and took the statuette from his grasp.

"What the HELL is going on Sherlock?"

Sherlock jumped up, throwing his arms in the air.

"Nothing! As you said, it was just a nightmare."

"It's more than that thought, isn't it? This is the third time in two days, and you almost killed me with that thing." John gestured to the statuette. "This has got something to do with the case, hasn't it? That's when it all started." That hit a nerve. Sherlock turned burgundy with anger; John was half expecting to see the steam coming out of his ears. But Sherlock did not shout back, instead he responded very calmly and carefully, ensuring every word sunk in.

"When you had your nightmares about the war, I didn't ask once what they were about. I let you have your space so that you could work through them on your own, because that was what you needed. I am asking you to have the same respect for me now."

That took John by surprise. It was true he had some terrible nightmares after the war, and Sherlock had not mentioned them. He just assumed Sherlock either didn't hear him crying in the night or he didn't care.

He didn't know what to say, so instead he gave a quick nod and retreated to his bedroom. Sherlock was right, this wasn't any of his business, if Sherlock wanted help he would come to him.

 _I just hate seeing him like this_ , said a small voice in his head.


	4. Chapter 4

The next 24 hours passed in silence. John did not go to Sherlock's aid when he heard him calling out in the night, and the next morning Sherlock looked exhausted, but still they said nothing.

 

But this did not stop John from worrying. He was certain this, whatever this was, had been triggered by the case Lestrade was investigating, and it would not stop until it was solved.

 

John did not wait for Lestrade's phone call, and dialled his number the second he had the chance.

 

"Lestrade?" John noticed Sherlock look up from his experiment and so he put the phone on speaker so Sherlock could listen. "I was wondering if there was anything new on the case."

"Not much. Joseph has stuck to his story so nothing new there. After examination of the locks it is clear the killer did not break in and so either had a key or was invited in. This means they used the front door and so must have arrived a while before the murder or else the neighbour would have seen them. To escape the killer must have gone out the back way, again or else the neighbour would have seen, and then scaled the garden wall. But no footprints have been found as of yet to prove this. So unless Joseph is the killer, we are clueless as to how this crime was committed."

There was a crash as Sherlock dropped his flask of yellow liquid. He gripped the table to steady himself as he turned deathly pale.

"I have to go," John said quickly, "one of Sherlock's experiments." He did not wait for Lestrade to reply as he hit the end call button and glared at Sherlock. 

 

He took a deep breath.

 

"Joseph killed his father didn't he? Didn't he?!" Sherlock said nothing. "If you do not answer me I will ring Lestrade back and tell him as much." He pointed at his mobile to force the threat. Sherlock jerked his head up and down in a swift nod. "Oh god." He took a moment to let it sink in before he continued. "Why are you protecting him?"

"He's just a boy," Sherlock whispered, his voice husky and coarse, "he was being abused and was in fear of his own life. He didn't mean to kill his father."

 

John spent most of the day trying to keep busy, but he kept thinking about Joseph. His heart went out to him, he must have been so afraid, first of his father and then of what he had done. 

But something still gnawed at him. Something didn't sit right with Sherlock's explanation. The boy did it alright, the evidence was clear, but there was something about the way Sherlock had looked when Lestrade had joked about Joseph being guilty, a desperation or pleading, a paternal need to protect this boy. There was more to this than Sherlock was letting on and John was determined to find out what. Sherlock had a personal connection to this case somehow; he just needed to work out what it was. The nightmares, it had to be linked to the nightmares. They started after they discovered the body, and they must have been serious if Sherlock was so afraid he had tried to bludgeon John to death. What did he keep calling out? Father? John didn't know anything about Sherlock's father or his family in general. Maybe he should talk to Mycroft? No, that would only make things worse; he would have to work this out for himself.

 

John may not have been a super genius consulting detective, but he knew people, and he knew the best ways to get them to talk.

Food. Food was the way to any man's stomach, even the great Sherlock Holmes needed to eat. For two hours John slaved in the kitchen throwing together a lasagne with his limited cooking ability. 

 

Sherlock did not argue when John told him to eat, in fact he hardly said anything at all. John watched as he ate mechanically, scooping up the white sauce and spearing the layers of pasta. He ate about half the plate before putting his fork down and pushing the plate away, indicating he was finished.

 

"Finished?" Sherlock gave a swift nod and so John took the plate away to put the left overs in the fridge. "Did you like it?"

"It was satisfactory. Enough to ensure my mind continued to process at an adequate speed for the next twenty four hours." John rolled his eyes and tried to take that as a compliment.

"It was my dad's favourite." Sherlock said nothing. "He died of a heart attack a good few years ago, but he always liked a good home made lasagne." John smiled fondly as memories came flooding back to him. "He was so good to us, hardworking and brave. He was in the army too, so I guess that's one of the reasons I joined; I wanted him to be proud of me like I was of him." John shook his head, this was supposed to be about Sherlock, not him. "What about your father?"   
Sherlock did not move.

"Dead."

"I'm sorry," John replied sincerely.

"Don't be." John could not think of what to say, he had never met anyone which such cold emotions towards their father. But Sherlock answered his silence with, "he was a Holmes; cold, heartless, selfish. One less Holmes on this earth is a good thing."

"I don't believe that for a second." Sherlock's lip twitched, the faint sign of a smile, but it was gone as quickly as it came. "How did he die?" John asked.

"Natural causes," Sherlock replied almost defensively. 

"Would he have died any other way?" 

"He made a lot of enemies, we do. But there is no need to talk of him now, he is dead and gone." 

"Is that why you tell him he can't hurt you anymore in your dreams?" Sherlock stood up deliberately slowly and walked away, but John called out, "he was abusing you wasn't he? Like how Phillip Dalton abused Joseph?" 

Sherlock kept his back to John, but answered in a cold, crisp, "yes." 

"And that's why you want to protect Joseph, because you know what it is like to be in that position?" 

Again a simple, "yes." 

"Did you kill your father?" 

"No!" The venom with which Sherlock had spun round and said that word took John by surprise, but not as much as the tear that was rolling down his cheek. "I was questioned, suspected of killing him. The detectives didn't like my family, they thought we were strange, we were! But that was no reason to accuse a fourteen year old of the murder of his own father!" Sherlock spat out his words and John could see how deep these wounds went, right down to his core. "Eventually they accepted the coroner's rule of natural causes and they left us alone, but after weeks of questions and unspoken threats, it damages a child." Sherlock sniffed and pulled himself together. "That is why I cannot let this happen to Joseph. That is why I talked to Joseph the moment I realised he did it. I gave him a story to stick to and I promised him I would protect him." 

"Of course, I had forgotten about that. What exactly did you say to him?"

"I told him that I knew what he did, and that I knew it was an accident. I told him it was better if he told me exactly what happened and then I would make sure everything was alright. His father had been threatening to burn him with an iron. Joseph was terrified so he took a knife from the kitchen and stabbed him. When his father fell to the floor and stopped moving, he got scared and hid in the cupboard. I told him not to tell anyone, not even the police what he had done, and then I gave him a story about hearing the scream and hiding in the cupboard. He wasn't sure at first but I told him I knew what it was like to be… hurt, and then he trusted me."

John observed Sherlock. His breathing was heavy and there was fire burning in his eyes. He was standing like he was ready to run a marathon, one leg in front of the other with his arms at angles and his hands into fists. 

John knew he was waiting for him to respond. 

"So what do we do?"


	5. Chapter 5

Lestrade pulled a crooked smile as Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were shown into his office. He leant back in his wheelie chair and clasped his hands together, leaning his elbows on the armrests. 

 

"Let me guess," he said as he offered the men a seat with a gesture, "you have solved my case for me and now you want me to make an arrest." Sherlock said nothing, Lestrade took that as a yes. "I knew you couldn't stay away." He pointed an accusing finger. "So who is getting a ride in the back of a police car today then?"

"We don't know," replied John. Lestrade was visibly less than happy with this statement; he shifted in his chair looking agitated. "What we mean to say is," corrected John, "we know who did it, but we don't have a name."

Lestrade took a deep breath. "Right." He turned to the detective. "Sherlock, you want to take me through it?"

"It is very simple really," Sherlock said nonchalantly. "The victim was a music agent. Every Robbie Williams and Madonna wannabe goes to him in hope of a record contract."

"I'm surprised you know who Robbie Williams and Madonna are," murmured Lestrade. John had to stifle a laugh. If Sherlock was offended by the comment he did not show it.

"The victim probably rejected hundreds of applications a month, crushing the dreams of many with one letter or phone call. I put it to you that one of these people found out where the victim lived and went to his house in hope for a second chance, or at least some tips on how to improve. He is invited in and they talk, the victim saying in no uncertain terms that the musician is a terrible singer and should continue working in McDonalds or wherever he his wasting his life away. The victim stands and suggests he should leave, but after being insulted the musician sees red and stabs the victim. He had been sitting on the sofa at the time and so that explains the strange angle of the entry wound. But the victim cries out as the knife strikes and in a blind panic the murderer rushes out the back way, climbing the tree in the back garden and jumping the fence, explaining the lack of footprints on the wood."

 

As Sherlock finished his narrative his eyes narrowed, like he was waiting for Lestrade's reaction. He glanced at John momentarily, exchanging a look that Lestrade did not understand, but in a blink it was gone and Sherlock was once more looking at him with the stone cold expression that made Lestrade shudder.

 

"But you have no name?" Lestrade asked eventually.

"It is impossible to know, it is likely this man had many official and unofficial auditions and too many rejections to sieve through. I have helped you as much as I can; the rest is up to you."

Lestrade groaned at the thought of the amount of work Sherlock's deductions told him he would be doing for the next week; getting a list of every rejection the victim had given, alibis, statements, paperwork. This was not going to be fun.

 

Sherlock and John left an exhausted Lestrade to his work. 

 

As they stepped onto the pavement, John let out a breath he had been holding.

"Do you think he believed us?"

"Lestrade has one flaw. No, scratch that, he has many flaws. But one of those flaws is that he trusts me, and so if I say something happened, then he will take it as gospel."

"What if he finds someone that fits our description? We cannot allow an innocent get blamed for this."

"I am not that cold hearted John," Sherlock said in a monotone. "If Lestrade managed to catch anyone with my vague description it would be a miracle. But of course I would then prove them innocent." Sherlock sighed. "In time it will become a cold case, a file of papers in a pile of other 'to do' files that will never be put to rest."

John did not approve of taking advantage of Lestrade like this, but the alternative meant a young boy would go to juvenile prison and for Sherlock's sake John was not going to let that happen.

 

John quickened his pace as to keep up with Sherlock's long stride, almost barging straight into oncoming traffic when Sherlock took an unexpected left. He hesitated.

"Er, Sherlock, the flat is that way." He indicated the street in the opposite direction. Sherlock did not stop as he called over his shoulder.

"We are not going home just yet."

 

Joseph could not make eye contact with either John or Sherlock as they sat opposite him on the sofa in the living room of the neighbour's house. John watched as he picked at the skin around his fingernails and chewed them off when they got long enough. Sherlock, who would normally look scrutinising and intimidating in these conditions, slouched on the settee with his hands loosely resting in his lap. He gave off a wave of calm that spread through the room as he waited until they were certain the neighbour was no longer eavesdropping and would not hear what was to be said. She had been reluctant to allow Sherlock into her house after his rudeness last time but Sherlock had insisted, explaining it was for the case. She then had wanted to sit with Joseph as Sherlock and John talked to him but Sherlock had refused. When she protested he stared blankly at the wall until she had given up and left the room. John he been about to speak when Sherlock placed his hand on John's knee to catch his attention and quickly shook his head. John gave an enquiring look and Sherlock nodded towards the door. Understanding his meaning, John leant back and they continued to wait in silence until footsteps were heard going up the stairs.

 

"Joseph," Sherlock said very quietly. The boy shot an accusing look at John. "It's okay, John is a friend, he is going to help." Finally the boy lifted his head and pushed his hands between his knees to stop himself fidgeting. "Listen to me Joseph, everything is going to be alright, I have fixed it just like I promised you. The police will never come for you so long as you tell no one, and I mean no one, about what happened. Do you understand?" He nodded, his eyes tearing up. Sherlock shifted forward in his seat and rummaged into his inside coat pocket, pulling out a small rectangular card. "If you ever need anything, and I mean _anything_ , you call me. Be it tomorrow, next month, or ten years away, I will be there."

Sherlock held out his calling card between his two fingers and, like a mouse edging towards cheese that could be in a trap, Joseph reached out and snatched it away.

 

With a satisfied nod, Sherlock stood up and was caught unawares as Joseph jumped at him, hugging his legs so tightly that Sherlock could not move. He froze momentarily, looking at John with a 'help me' expression. John simply smiled. Slowly Sherlock wrapped one arm around the boy's shoulders and the other on the back of his head as he pressed him closer in a strong embrace.

 

John waited patiently until the unlikely companions pulled apart. Before he left, Sherlock placed a hand on Joseph's shoulder and said, "any time. I mean it."

"Thank you." Joseph's voice broke as he spoke.

 

John looked incredibly smug as the duo climbed into the taxi and headed back to Baker Street.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked with an air of frustration.

"Nothing," he replied, in a way that suggested there was more. "It's just," there it was, "I never saw you as the caring father type." Sherlock shifted in his seat. "It was nice."

"Well don't get used to it," Sherlock mumbled.

"Why not, I can't see why the great Sherlock Holmes can't show a little emotion now and again."

"John," Sherlock took a deep breath, "shut up. If you will not engage me in stimulating conversation then I ask you not to talk at all." John rolled his eyes.

"Oh well, it was nice while it lasted."

"Shush," Sherlock snapped.

"Sherlock-"

"Shh."

"Sher-"

"Shh!"

"Sh-"

"Shhhhhh!"


End file.
